Failed IVF can be just as upsetting as miscarriage

I haven't always wanted children. Unlike other women I know, I didn't go through my teens and 20s knowing it was my destiny to be a mother. I just wasn't the maternal type.

Then I met Jaimie and everything changed. I suddenly got 'the feels' and almost overnight I became broody. We knew that, thanks to some other health problems, it might take a while for me to fall pregnant so when we got married – both of us were 33 – we got straight to the business of making a baby.

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But nature didn't play ball.

After three years of trying, miscarrying, desperate sadness at the inevitable arrival of a period each month, and a whole bunch of fertility tests, we were given the news that IVF was our only option to have a baby. At going-on-37, my eggs were declining fast in number and quality, so we didn't have time to hang around.

Horror stories

Like most people I imagine, we turned to the Internet, which proved both a blessing and a curse. It helps clear up some of the little nuggets of confusion, but perpetuates many others. And it's jam-packed with what are – quite frankly – horror stories about the IVF experience.

And then there's the wait, which, if you're having treatment on the NHS, could well be lengthy (ours was seven months). But finally, the day came.

Every couple's treatment protocol is different, but for us, it started with a course of oestrogen tablets. The main female sex hormone, oestrogen, is given to some women undergoing IVF to reset their reproductive cycle so it can then be manipulated to behave as though preparing for pregnancy.

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Injecting hormones

Then followed weeks of hormones to coerce my body into doing what most women's do naturally without intervention. First, a batch of daily injections to stimulate the follicles of the ovaries to produce eggs, then a second type of hormone injection that stops the ovaries from releasing the eggs, and a third 'trigger' injection to make sure the eggs are mature, all punctuated by a series of internal ultrasound scans and blood tests along the way.

On the day of the egg collection, we were ushered into the prep room along with a dozen-or-so other couples and 'processed' – seen by an embryologist and an anaesthetist, ticked off their list and the women sent into theatre one-by-one like a factory line of hens. The procedure itself was over quickly and yielded eight eggs. They were put in a little petri dish where they were introduced to Jaimie's sperm and left to do their thing.

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Then began the most dignified part of the process... Sticking a little white bullet of progesterone hormone up your bum twice a day to thicken the uterus lining in readiness for the arrival of an embryo. Of my eight eggs, only two fertilised and one embryo was put back into my uterus in a 20-minute procedure that's just like having a smear test.

Uncomfortable effects

The next two weeks post-transfer are a little rough. I was in the throes of a mess of hormones, marked by exhaustion, heavy and painful boobs, constipation, bloating, headaches and abdominal cramps.

The cruellest thing about IVF is that your body responds as though you're pregnant even if you're not. My stomach jutted out like I was a couple of months away from giving birth, but thankfully, being self-employed, my 'office wardrobe' comprised a few pairs of oversized joggers with elasticated waists!

But here's the headline: physically, it's not all that bad.

When you spend months – even years – mulling over the prospect of IVF, everything you read and everyone you talk to fill you with dread about what will happen to you. The physical strain on your body is immense, you're told. The side effects are barely tolerable, and the intensity of the treatment – the intrusive tests and the sheer frequency of the clinic visits – will inevitably drive both partners to distraction.

The truth is, it's not like that for everyone. It certainly wasn't for me. It's uncomfortable, yes. At times painful. But in the scheme of things it's nothing I couldn't cope with. Much to Jaimie's relief, I didn't go all 'Mr Hyde' and my mood was stable. The hospital visits are a pain, especially when you have to take time out of work and most of it is spent in a waiting room. But you grit your teeth and crack on.

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The toll on the mind

What we weren't prepared for – perhaps naïvely – was the psychological ordeal. The term 'rollercoaster' is a cliché that perfectly describes this journey. At each stage, you expect bad news while desperately hoping for good, and chance decides which you'll get. It's a wild goose chase of emotions and all the while, the odds are stacked heavily on the side of defeat.

Then came the news: Unsuccessful. Failed. Not pregnant.

A phrase I'd seen appear on the numerous white sticks I'd peed on over the past few years and this time, a sentence handed down by a nurse during one gloomy March afternoon phone call.

I was shattered by the sense of loss of something I never actually had. The tsunami of grief was, inexplicably, more powerful than I'd felt after miscarrying a pregnancy. It's overwhelming, and above all else, completely isolating. All around, people go about their lives without a second glance, many of them getting pregnant and having babies, while the only thing that filled my emptiness was seething anger.

It's not just me who went through this. My husband prepared my injections, kissed my stomach after each one 'for luck', administered my first suppository (I couldn't stop laughing so I did it myself after that!), held my hand when I came around after the egg collection, eagerly watched on the ultrasound screen when our embryo was put back, waited on me hand and foot throughout, and cried every single tear with me.

He is a Dad through and through in his heart – and I, a Mum – but with no baby to show for it.

The silver lining

Our experience of IVF hasn't been completely without merit. You learn a lot, most notably about how you respond to the treatment so you're better prepared to go through it again. And you wise up to how to handle it.

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The best tactic for my money is, rather than focusing on the end result you're hoping for, to approach each stage as a hurdle in and of itself with its own outcome. Break things down into more manageable chunks and take each one as it comes. That way, it's suddenly less overwhelming and easier to bear if it doesn't go your way.

For now though, what I'm left with is two pairs of joggers that are too big and a fridge full of wine where the medication once was stored.

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